


It Will Make You, Too

by inkedinserendipity



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Caduceus Clay's Ridiculous One-Liners, Gen, Love Makes People, M/M, Teenage Redemption Arcs, but i hope eventually he does, coda to c2e194, do i know how essek redeemed himself absolutely not, essek but like only kinda (TM), shadowgast implied but not like specifically in there, uhhh, yes that includes life needs things to live thanks caddyshack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:15:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29231394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkedinserendipity/pseuds/inkedinserendipity
Summary: The name of his first-self does not matter. So long as Devir can learn what he learned, can know what he knew, then how he loved does not matter.(Essek is reborn, and must learn again to love.)
Relationships: Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 9
Kudos: 102





	It Will Make You, Too

Devir is over halfway to his twentieth year when he begins to remember.

His fellows tell him it is early, but Devir does not pay them much mind. He has always been good at magic, and besides, they are only jealous. So what if he does not have a family like they do, a home such as the ones they take for granted? He is smart, and he has always known that he is special, and  _ his _ is the only soul among the whole of his class that is consecuted. For Devir, that is proof enough.

Normally the memories of consecuted souls begin with the end of their life, the culmination of all of their wisdom. Devir remembers his former life — his first life, he believes, or so they tell him — as a child. As a youngling. In the memories his old-self’s name is fuzzy, but that does not much matter anyway, because that drow is dead, and now Devir stands in his place. He will take this first-self’s knowledge and put it to good use. 

He is pleased, then, to find that his first-self was much like him: isolated and proud, hungry for knowledge.

A few weeks after he begins to regain his memories, he teaches himself to float. The looks of awe on the faces of those unconsecuted in his class make the long, exhausted nights well worth the pain.

* * *

His Den comes to him in a flash: Theylss. Not a name, but a symbol, of one of the three greatest clans of Rosohna. It is with great pride that Devir is introduced to the Denmother. No matter that she asks him what his first-self’s name was when he met her, and no matter that he did not know; he entered gliding, and from the look on her face, that was answer enough.

(Later, Devir will wonder after the look on the Denmother’s face when she met him. The inquiry after his first-self’s name seemed more a formality than anything else. But what was it on her face, when she looked at him? Was it shame? Pride? Fear? Joy?

He is too young. He cannot tell.) 

* * *

Under the Denmother’s guidance he continues his studies. As a consecuted soul, of one of the three largest Dens in Rosohna no less, learning is far easier than it has ever been. No longer is Devir troubled by his meddlesome classmates, no longer is he distracted by their incessant questions and the nuisance hypotheticals that his teachers pose. Instead he is allowed to immerse himself in his reading, in his facts and his sigils and his great tomes of history and lore, and he swallows it all eagerly, eyes bright. He is happy for the first time in a long, long time.

As he learns he continues to remember. In parallel he gets flashes of his first-self studying, just as Devir does now: hunched over a book, scribing his own notes, even — here, Devir feels a flash of pride that  _ this  _ was his first-self — inventing his own spells. His  _ own spells! _ Of course Devir does not yet know whether his past-self wrote those spells down. He hopes he did not. He wants to be the only one in the world who knows the spells he created.

He quickly outpaces his tutors. He devours his learning-materials. He would socialize more with his Denmates, but for the most part they are uninteresting. Save the Denmother, of course, but it is his good fortune that she never has much to say to him; only looks at him with that strange expression on her face that makes him wonder, sometimes, how she knew his first-self, before Devir took his place. 

It is of no matter, of course, because his past-self is dead, and Devir is here. As long as Devir knows what he knew, and learns what he had, then he is of no more consequence than his already-faded light.

* * *

His routine is easy. Not mentally, of course; mentally it is more taxing than ever. But there is a comfort in the simplicity of waking, learning, reading, creating, before resting again. All the while he remembers the tandem-studies of his past-self, unbothered by the slower pace of his recollections. There is a comfort to the slowness, too; clearly his past-self learned much that was worth remembering, and passing on. Devir takes detailed notes, wherever he can.

So one day, when Devir wakes up to a strange ache in a chest half-remembered, he is shaken to his core. 

It is not something he ate. It takes him a moment to place it, but finally he does: it is his memories. Something... _ something... _ .

The memories rush up at him, and he collapses back onto his bed, and does not remember what he dreams.

* * *

When he arises again he feels older. His head is pounding, and with the instinct of a split-soul he knows that he has gained another decade. But — but if it was only a decade then why do his memories feel so — so changed? So starkly different? 

Nervous, angry, he peers at what his first-self showed him, and watches in horror as his first-self’s world blooms into color — true color — for the very first time.

* * *

For a long time, Devir ignores it, the decade of memories he gained in a single night. They do not matter. What  _ matters _ is that, in those years after the changed-decade, his first-self thinks less and less of his studies, and more and more of his people. These stupid, nonsensical people. Some human, some tiefling, one a wretched deformed half-orc.  _ These _ are the people his first-self gave up all of his knowledge for? It was for this pale-skinned human wizard that his past-self sacrificed his pride to  _ collaborate? _

He thinks he must know now what the Denmother saw when he entered, proudly gliding. Luxon above, Devir must have looked like a fool. She must have looked upon him with shame.

* * *

So he separates the memories with strict and furious lines. What is knowledge is relevant, and what is less-than-that is not so. He begrudgingly concedes, eventually, that the human wizard his first-self spent so much time with was nearly —  _ nearly  _ — his past-self’s equal, as much as a short-lived  _ human _ could ever be, but he will not deny his own disgust when he finds himself scratching out equations that human first wrote. 

Truly, his past-self knew no shame, consorting with types such as those. Especially the wizard. His past-self felt such respect and fondness for that wizard that Devir is nearly sick with it.

Devir spends days parsing his newfound memories, blinding himself to that strange group and the even-stranger warmth before his sternum that echoes through time whenever he thinks of them, because warmth is not relevant, here, in the pursuit of progress. 

As he takes notes, he remembers, more and more, and in flashes he watches them get old. The half-orc is the first to go, the pink one and the tieflings both longer-lived, and it is with pain that his past-self watches time shrivel them and pick them off, one-by-one. Eventually, none are left but the tall furred one, who lays them to rest with such care. 

It is not worth it, Devir resolves, watching with amusement and horror as his past-self mourns. Nothing could be worth the pain in his chest as he watches those he once loved wither to dust. 

* * *

The first time he presents one of his past-self’s spells to the Denmother, she looks at him quietly and tells him that she is proud, and his chest burns. 

He does what he does best: he flees. He does not know how her face looks as she watches him go. 

* * *

Some in his Den disdain all company. Some in his Den seem as though they never stop talking: always conversing, always joking, some even singing. Devir can never understand those last ones, the beaming smiles on their faces. They are never talking of politics, of magic, so what can there possibly be to smile about? 

* * *

Months pass. Devir immerses himself in his studies, encouraged by how much more he now knows. Fire comes easier to him than he should have thought possible, as does the manipulation of gravity, of time. He is powerful, more powerful than any other consecuted soul his age — no, any other drow, consecuted or no — and he loves it. He burns so, so bright, and the whole of the Den has their eyes on him. It matters not the expressions they make when they see him, so long as they are watching.

His studies continue seamlessly until one day, a knock on the door interrupts him. This startles him so badly that he spills his ink. 

“Yes? Hello?” 

“Devir.” 

The Denmother. In  _ his _ quarters. No one has seen his quarters since he was provided these chambers. He looks about, takes a moment to be quite grateful that he has kept them clean, and stands. “Come in, please.” 

She does. “Thank you.” 

Devir watches her curiously as she sits, and after a moment follows her lead. He tilts his head. “Denmother?” 

“Please,” she says quietly, in a voice too old for him to understand. “Call me Deirta.” 

“Deirta, then,” he says, testing out the new name. “Why the drop in formality, Denmother?” 

“Because it is time for me to tell you what I know of your first-self,” she says. “I have kept it from you long enough.”

“I know what I need to of his life.”

“You do not. You do not even know his name.”

“You cannot know what I know of him.” 

“I do, because had you sought his name, you would have asked,” she replies calmly. “Your first-self was Essek Theylss.” 

Devir stares at her. That — cannot be possible. Essek? The  _ Shadowhand Essek? _ The one of which the Bright Queen still speaks? This — this sentimental fool, who shared his spells with a human wizard, who hurt for so long for forgiveness for a plan that bore fruit? 

“Impossible. He — I do not believe this. I  _ cannot  _ believe this.” 

The Denmother tilts her head. “Why not?” 

“Because Essek was acclaimed, he has — penned books, created hundreds of spells, crafted his own form of magic! This bumbling  _ fool  _ who was my first-life cannot have been—” 

“Enough,” the Denmother snaps, and for the first time since Devir has known her she looks truly angry. “You will not speak of my son that way.”

“You did,” he says, without thinking, and is struck with horror the moment the words leave his mouth. He had not — he had not paid attention, he had known his past-self knew her but he had not realized — that was his mother, who had hurt him, he had not meant to —

She sags, the anger poured out of her, grief in its place. “Yes,” she says, “I did. I regret it now. In a way my son was lucky; he had a chance to amend his regrets while those he held dear still lived.” 

She stands, and walks quietly through the door, and closes it gently behind her.

* * *

For the first time since arriving at Den Theylss, Devir is angry. 

Denmothers should be the epitome of grace and poise and control, but his first-self, the Essek Theylss of legend, had never felt that. As her son he was held up and torn down and cast out. Essek spent his first twenty years longing for a community the Den could not provide, because when Essek was here, those who laugh and sing did not yet laugh and sing as Devir knows them to do. He wonders, briefly, where they learned to sing so loudly and shutter the windows as they went, before pushing that thought away.

But his Denmother — Deirta — was unkind. She was cruel. And for that, for the slowly-sputtering warmth in his first-self’s chest that Devir feels die as his own, Devir is angry.

He goes to sleep furious. He dreams of a young boy, not much older than himself, pouring over books with shaking hands.

* * *

When he wakes he is centered. He cannot remember exactly what the very last of his dreams were of, but they felt warm, sparking, like a hot bed of embers on a cool night. 

He rises, dresses, and attends to his studies, like every other day. 

Unlike any other day Devir has lived, he is distracted. 

Now that he knows, now that he is aware of the creeping corners of his mind that have sifted through Essek’s memories far more carefully than he thought — or perhaps those corners of his mind are not his alone — they continue to flash before his eyes without warning. The bright blue tiefling who embraced him. The warmth on his toes of a heated pool of water. The rush of satisfaction of completing a spell crafted not for himself, but for another. The pink-furred one whose hot chocolate was always, perhaps, just a touch too sweet. 

At first he tries to push it away. For weeks he does exactly that: closes his eyes when a memory resurfaces, centers himself, and breathes deep until he is wholly himself again.

But Devir is curious by nature. Essek was, too, and Devir is starting to realize that they are more similar than he thought. More than anything else, Devir wants to know what it was that struck in that single decade to change him: from the drow Devir expected him to be, into the drow he is remembered as. The soft, sentimental one who made spells for those he held dear, who learned to bend time and luck for the sake of another. The one whose chest burned, warmed, but did not hurt.

* * *

Months pass. He watches the memories of that decade in a crawl. 

It is excruciating, watching as his first-self grows more and more attached to this group of seven who trample through the continent uncovering problems and drawing allies and enemies in equal measure. The slow burn of worry, not only for himself but for them as well, the slow consideration of his own wrongdoings, it....

He is right, Devir realizes one day. His past self. The concept that perhaps not all knowledge should be sought, and knowledge is sometimes not worth its cost....

It sticks. It sinks into its bones. Like a warm cup of hot chocolate on a bitterly cold day, it clings, and it soothes. 

Devir begins to understand.

* * *

The graveyard is a beautiful place, if a tad too bright for Devir’s liking. Though, if he is quite honest, most places in this foreign land are too bright for Devir’s liking. 

He knocks on the door. A familiar face answers the door, and when that pink-eyed gaze settles on him, it stretches into an easy grin. 

“Just in time,” says Caduceus Clay, who looks at him warmly. “Please. Join me for tea.” 

* * *

“Jester made a horrible fuss about how we would all be buried,” Caduceus says, leading the way through the graveyard. Devir has no idea how, but the warm summer’s day on which he arrived has mellowed into a pleasant sky of muted light, relieving him from having to squint through the trees. “She made diagrams and diagrams of who would be buried next to where, how I should position their bodies, but it was all an awful lot of fuss for a bunch of decomposing matter who really had no stake in it. Over here.” 

Caduceus leads him to a small clearing, sharpened at six distinct points by six towering trees, some tall and lithe, some shorter and squat, all glistening with a faint shimmering aura whose outline gleams whenever Devir looks at it. Caduceus catches him squinting and laughs. “Jester’s idea. I implemented the magic, of course. She and Beau fought terribly about whose tree would get to be blue, but Jester conceded to pink in the end. Here, sit. Let me pour you a cup.” 

“I understand you knew me,” Devir says, unaccountably nervous. “As my former self.” 

Caduceus passes him a cup. It is warm. “Oh, Essek? Yes, I’d say so. He’s right over there, you know.” 

Caduceus points, and Devir squints in that direction, and can just faintly make out an unusually stark bush, whose leaves are whirls of purple and silver. “Or, his body at least. I suppose his soul’s yours now. Sugar?” 

“How — wait, what do you mean, his body?” 

“I mean that’s where I buried him,” Caduceus says easily. “Everyone’s buried beneath their tree. I’ve left a plot open for me, oh, two hundred or so years from now. Between you and me, the Wildmother’s promised to make mine a brighter green than Fjord’s, which would annoy him to no end.” Caduceus pauses. “I’m going to assume you take sugar.” 

“But Essek was not buried,” Devir insists. “The Shadowhand’s body was given over to the grace of the light the very same day he died.” 

Caduceus frowns. “Oh, is that what they’re telling you? He would’ve hated that.” 

Caduceus adds a sugar to Devir’s tea, and to his surprise Devir finds himself agreeing. Essek would have hated that, his body receiving one of the highest honors of his Den after his death. “He...was not burned, then?” 

“Nah. He’s just over there. I’d show you, but I don’t think his bones are left. Makes a great tea, though.” 

Devir nearly drops his cup.  _ “What?” _

“All of these plants are harvestable. That’s why I keep them.” 

“This is — ” he holds the cup away from himself. “You made this from the Shadowhand’s  _ body? _ ”

“Of course. Tea is organic, after all, and life needs things to live.” 

Caduceus nods sagely. Devir stares at the bush. The thousand-and-one questions he had prepared for the firbolg — for  _ Caduceus _ — have fallen out of his head. He cannot believe that, of all places, the Shadowhand Essek would have chosen to be buried  _ here _ .

Or perhaps he can. When he is honest with himself, he can. Now that he knows what it was, he recognizes the great strange affection Essek held for them all. He would have died for them, Devir recognizes now. Several times, he very nearly did. 

This, he does not understand yet. But he begins to.

The trees around them sway in a breeze Devir cannot feel. In the hazy afternoon light Devir catches the outlines of the trees — close to auras, but for nothing more than the plants — as the leaves shift and dance. Here, a bright yellow; there, a soothing black; there, a steady green, a cheery pink, a rough blue, a warm orange. Then, past even those, different shades of green and bronze and brown and lavender, which wrap around to end, finally, on Essek’s purple and silver. 

Devir finds he does not mind that the Shadowhand’s body was not scorched, as the legend says. Essek, he knows, would have been much happier to rest here. 

“How did you do it?” Devir asks quietly. 

“Hm?” 

“How did you change him?” 

Caduceus looks at him curiously. “I don’t follow.” 

“When he was younger,” Devir explains, “the Shadowhand — Essek — was like me. Then he met all of you, and then he was nothing like me at all. He cared. Deeply. He cared so much he nearly died for it several times. How? How did you do it?” 

“Oh, that? That was simple, really. It wasn’t war, or — I mean, there was a war happening at the time, though we stopped it before Essek really sort of grew up. But I’ll tell you something I told another powerful wizard a very, very long time ago, and I hope you’ll heed it better than he did.” Caduceus shifts, and suddenly Devir cannot look away. “It’s not pain that makes people. It’s love that makes them. It’s love that made Essek who he became, and it is love that will make you too, if you choose to feel it.” 

“That sounds....”

Caduceus smiles, the strange weight draining, easy and open again. “Strange, I know.” 

“No. It feels right.” Devir frowns. He doesn’t understand it himself. “I don’t know how, but it feels right.” 

“Oh,” Caduceus says, looking pleased. “I’m so glad that worked.” 

* * *

Hours pass in that garden. Caduceus fills in the gaps of Devir’s memories that Essek could never quite fill. For the first time, Devir finds himself laughing. His chest burns, but he does not hurt. 

Before he leaves he kneels before the purple-studded bush that rests atop the body of his first-self, the drow he once hated and now understands as himself. He doesn’t speak, because there is nothing that he needs to say. 

After a while he stands and brushes off his knees. With his comforting, gentle smile, Caduceus escorts him from the graveyard. 

* * *

Devir returns to Rosohna with his mind awhir, and it takes weeks of meditation and sleeping to straighten it out. Still, even then it does not click. 

At least until one day, distracted, he strikes up a conversation with one of the laughing-drow who haunt Den Theylss’s corners, and by the end of the conversation he finds himself laughing too. 

He does not learn of spells, or rituals, or glyphs. But he learns of something that he understands now to be far, far more important. 

He begins, again, to love. 

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea how the Nein died. i like to think they lived out their natural lives, all together of course. it didn't make it because devir doesn't know anything about the empire but like all of them are famous. he might've heard of jester and fjord and yasha but he has absolutely no clue about the rest. rest assured though that all of the nein lived really good lives. and jester did go very, very hard on designing their graves. 
> 
> liked it? check me out inkedinserendipity at tumblr!


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